"You're joking." That's what my babysitter said to me after I told her about what I saw on the news. She came to my house on short notice because Dad was about to meet with a new company and Calliope forgot her inhaler at school and had to go get it quickly before the doors locked.

"There's no way that man is your dad," she explained, "I mean, like, why would anyone bury your wi-, or your, well, significant other in a junkyard? Unless you have a reason for doing it. Like, I get the burying part but in a junkyard? Nuh-uh. Not on my watch."

You could probably guess what my babysitter- Kristie, was talking about, right? In case you didn't, I told her that there was this guy on the news who was average in every single aspect. However, he was known by our town, Cradlewood, for one thing: digging in abandoned, overrun places such as the abandoned junkyard on Garland Road. Kristie, however, kind of just moved here from Montana, so she didn't know the ins and outs of old Cradlewood and she wasn't familiar with the junkyard and its characteristics. He went to the yard every day to dig in that same spot for parts or anything useful, but one day, that very day, was different. That day was a, I guess, special occasion. It wasn't a happy day, nor sad. It wasn't a real bad day either, until... the accident. See, my mom was involved in a ten-car pile-up not too long ago. Like, a year ago, maybe... Let's just say, um, that there were no survivors... You can probably guess that that day was the one-year anniversary of her passing. I told Krystie that she died earlier. The police found one of her legs enclosed around our car seat and the other laid down near the rug on the car floor. My dad decided to take her to the junkyard to bury. After a bit, somebody that looked familiar arrived at the junkyard. I started looking out my window to see what was going on. I saw more people coming. With cameras. With bright, blue microphones that said WCBK on them... you get the idea. So, in other words... the footage ended up on the news. I showed Krystie the recording because I thought I could trust her to not mention Mom again. She did, though. Remember? She said that she would never bury her wife- and I quote- ahem, significant other- end quote- in a junkyard. I actually wasn't that mad, because, like, it's been a year, and I wasn't surprised when a bountiful of apologies came toiling in after she realized what she had just said.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry, Alex, I didn't mean to mention-" Kristie squealed.

"It's fine," I blurted out quickly, "really. I'm not affected by it anymore. It's all good."

"No, it's not all good," she told me as she grabbed hold of a piece of paper from her purse. I caught sight of her tattoo on which resembled a black scorpion.

"Here," she said, handing me the slip of paper. I took it hesitantly. I didn't know where we were going with this. I stared at it closely and it read: Nicholas Stevenson, PsyD, 871-232-2719. Holy mother of God. A shrink? Seriously? I need anything but a shrink, to be honest. I was about to tell Krystie one hundred times 'no', but of course, of course, she had to talk first.

"Before you say anything," her mouth started to talk, "this guy is amazing. I think you need to learn how to cope with your feelings about your mom better. He's gonna help you... a lot. For real!"

"Nope. Not doing it. It's gonna be a total waste of time, and besides, I have something else to do instead," I replied.

"Oh, yeah? Like what?" she asked. Okay, that last part was actually a lie.

I guess I got saved by the bell, because right that very second, my dad pulled in from the driveway of our house, coming from meeting his new co-workers. As he opened the door, Krystie knew it was time to leave.

"Ok!" she said when she heard the sound of the unlocking of the door. "Promise you'll sleep on it? He's available on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from one o'clock to six."

"Ugh, fine," I reluctantly agreed. I watched Krystie stand up, walk to the main hallway, and receive news from my dad that he forgot to visit the ATM on the way back to our house, which was not good because he couldn't pay Krystie in cash, which is what she requested. I actually really couldn't care less, because I raced up to my room the second Krystie said, "Bye, Alex," and as a result, I couldn't make out what they were saying at all. But I do remember that my dad was just all-out embarrassed that there was zero cash in his wallet. Zero.

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "I'm so stupid! I should've stopped at the ATM on Elm and 39th, 'cause I don't have any cash on me! I'm really sorry, Krystie." Everything was just gibberish after that; Krystie left in fumes of anger; I heard her slam the door, enraged.

'That went well,' I thought to myself. Seriously, if anyone meets anyone that has even a brief similarity to my father, I will look at them in disbelief.